rare_heroes reveal: Time Running (Heroes)
Title: Time Running
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mohinder/Nirand
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Prompts: Lab coats, research and past Mohinder/Sylar
Summary: “Mohinder is a dangerous man,” says Nathan. “Dangerous men don’t get to go free.”
A/N: Yes, guys, this was mine; it was written for toestastegood. I know, Mohinder/Nirand, ew, right? You should check it out anyway. For even just this one reason: I didn't use the verb "to be" (is, was, were, am, are) anywhere in the fic, besides dialogue. Not a single instance. You can check me on that.
- - -
Nirand’s cheap leather briefcase sweats under his palm; his fingers slip, bare friction keeping the case from tumbling to the ground. He scans the road outside the airport, clogged with dirty taxicabs, square black suitcases, crying children, all hazed with a vague air of cigarette smoke.
The streets remain, as in his first glance, empty of his promised escort.
Nirand sighs, glancing to the dial of his watch, faintly glowing in the abstract twilight. Twenty minutes late.
“Mr. Nirand.”
Nirand turns, shrugging the fabric of his jacket, thin against the chill of New York autumn, closer around his shoulders. “It’s Doctor,” he corrects, curtly.
The federal agent pauses, the last of the day’s sunlight reflecting cleanly off the man’s glasses, transforming simple black plastic lenses into empty mirrors. “The President is waiting,” says the agent.
Nirand nods, impatient, and gestures for the agent to lead the way.
- - - -
“Goldfish?”
The yellow crackers smile contentedly from the blue porcelain bowl; the sight, somehow, sickens Nirand. “No,” he says, “thank you.”
Smile stretches lipstick-covered lips too wide over stained-white teeth; the effect is less attractive than gruesome. Nirand clutches the briefcase, thinking of his luggage driven away in the President’s reflective black car. Taken to his hotel? Whisked away for inspection? He suspects the latter.
Finally, the secretary returns to her work, manicured nails clicking on the keyboard.
The door to the Oval Office opens smoothly, soundlessly, unlike the door to Nirand’s office. He’ll take care of it, when he gets back, grease the hinges.
Nirand has schooled himself, firmly, to expect nothing; still, somehow, his first sight of Nathan Petrelli, leader of the free world, youngest United States President in history, still manages to take him by surprise.
Nathan nods, curtly, at the secretary. Turns to Nirand. “Are you Dr. Nirand?”
Nirand stands. Extends his hand, to clasp around Nathan’s own. Nathan’s handshake grips too strong, twisting the shake to his own advantage.
“What is this about?” Nirand asks, attempting courtesy.
Nathan gestures Nirand into the Oval Office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
“I heard that-”
“I don’t put much stock in rumors, Dr. Nirand,” interrupts Nathan Petrelli. “What you heard - is irrelevant. What you need to know is what I’m going to tell you, right now.”
“Is it about Mohinder Suresh?”
Nathan considers this, his mouth flat. “Yes,” he says, finally.
- - - -
Nirand doesn’t recall much of the lab, on the way in; he retains a lingering impression of off-white tile, too-cold air conditioning. The lab room itself blurs into impressions of white and grey, metal and fluorescent.
The lab assistant leaves him behind; Nirand watches as Mohinder Suresh leans over a microscope, perched precariously on the edge of a stool.
“Mohinder,” he ventures, cautiously.
Mohinder doesn’t move; he flips a Bic pencil in his fingers, makes a scribble on lined notebook paper.
“Mohinder,” again, louder.
“So that’s how it is.” Mohinder snaps his binder shut, the Bic falling next to it. Moves to the next microscope. “What did he promise you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“First he brings in the most brilliant scientists of the age,” and he moves away from the microscope, to the computer, “then it’s all about lab assistants. Women, men, they’re all beautiful, all so eager to help out, any way I need it.” Fingers, tapping at the keyboard, windows opening and closing too fast for Nirand to make any sense of it. “What did he promise you?”
“Nathan Petrelli?”
“Yes, Nathan Petrelli.” Mohinder shoves test tubes out of the way, yanks a white lab coat from underneath. Wraps it around his shoulders, not bothering to pull it all the way on.
Nirand can understand that - the sub-Arctic feel of the lab already grates on his nerves. “He didn’t promise me anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
The last time Nirand saw Mohinder Suresh, the passion in his eyes glowed so bright Nirand doubted Mohinder’s sanity; now, he thinks, he prefers that Mohinder, the excited, intense Mohinder, to this burnt-out hopeless version.
“There was a friend in need,” says Nirand, simply. “I came.”
“Oh, yes.” Mohinder turns. “Nathan Petrelli, master manipulator. How long, do you think, before he starts asking you questions?” Starts sliding binders into a stack.
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s he working on?” Another binder onto the stack. “Why is he hiding it?” Another. “Can you give me his notes?” And another - Mohinder slams them down on a clear patch of table. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out!” Mohinder snarls, tendons straining at the force of his grip on the table’s edge.
Nirand can’t find a trace of his old friend in the wild rage of Mohinder’s eyes.
- - - -
“How is he?” asks Nathan.
Nirand shifts his balance against the uncomfortable gravel, the perfect horticulture suddenly claustrophobic. “As you said,” murmurs Nirand. “Troubled.”
“You understand why it’s important, then,” says Nathan.
Nirand carefully considers his next question. “Aren’t there other ways to find out about his research?”
Nathan glances away, eyes tracing the edge of a perfectly square bush. “He doesn’t just encrypt his notes, he codes them. Half in one language, half in another. Slang that we can’t understand, organization only he can figure out.” Nathan shakes his head. “We need someone he can trust.”
Nirand nods. “I understand.”
- - - -
“May I come in?”
Mohinder prods one-handed at cold steak with a plastic fork, half-hearted.
A positive response if Nirand has ever seen one; he steps into the suite, sliding the door shut behind him. “You live here?” he asks.
Mohinder nods, dropping the fork.
“You never leave the White House?”
“No,” Mohinder confirms, lowly. “Never.”
“And you’re happy with this?”
“I’m sorry,” murmurs Mohinder.
“For what?”
“For the lab,” says Mohinder. His slim brown fingers twist in his hair; he sighs, in irritation or despair. Or both. “I was out of line.”
“Not at all,” Nirand protests.
“I think you should go back to India,” Mohinder tells him.
Nirand shakes his head. “Not until I know that you are all right.”
“It’s dangerous.”
Nirand laughs. “Dangerous?”
Mohinder’s eyes stay fixed on his cold half-eaten dinner. “No,” he says, finally.
“No, it’s not dangerous?”
“No,” says Mohinder, “I’m not happy.”
- - - -
“So, what is it you’re working on?”
Mohinder laughs, his face twisting into a smile. “You think I’d possibly trust you enough to tell you?”
That hurts - much more than Nirand expects. “I am your friend,” he jokes, to cover it up. “And I knew your father.”
“Don’t talk to me about my father.”
Interesting.
Mohinder turns back to him, palms flat on a rare empty stretch of the long metal table. “Any research you’re working on?”
Nirand pauses. “Ah, well, yes, of course…”
“Need anything?” Mohinder gestures at the lab. “Equipment, materials, assistants? I can get it for you.”
Nirand feels, briefly, like a fish stranded on the sand, its wave retreating too quickly into the ocean.
“I’m on an unlimited budget,” Mohinder tells him. “I can get it for you.”
“Really,” Nirand manages.
- - - -
“You have him on an unlimited budget.”
Nathan raises an eyebrow, behind unrevealing sunglasses. “I do.”
“And you don’t even know what he’s working on?” Nirand blinks. “Why don’t you just let him go?”
“He’s a dangerous man,” says Nathan. “Dangerous men don’t get to go free.”
- - - -
“Be careful of him,” cautions Mohinder.
“Who?” asks Nirand.
“Nathan.”
Nirand glances up, to Mohinder’s distracted expression, his eyes flicking from one page of notes to another.
“Why?” he asks, cautiously.
“He acts like you already agree with him,” says Mohinder. “He doesn’t let you say no. He makes you think his ideas are yours.” Mohinder brushes his hair out of his face, impatient, and Nirand finds that he can’t look away.
“He made you think that?”
“Nathan doesn’t have any power over me,” Mohinder dismisses. “That’s why he brought you here.”
- - - -
Mohinder shudders, absently, and Nirand sees his hand steal up to his mouth.
“Is everything all right?” asks Nirand, finally. “You’ve been staring at that computer all day.”
Mohinder looks up, surprise and chagrin darting over his features.
- - - -
After Mohinder slips out of the room, presumably to find a similarly metal-and-tile bathroom, Nirand checks the computer screen.
One program. He clicks, and finds a three-dimensional model of a brain, dotted with markers, labeled in a strange mix of Tamil and English. They don’t make any sense - Freeze, flood, 500, !!, 10/16. Incomprehensible symbols.
When Mohinder returns to the computer, his face falls into a delicate grimace. He knows, Nirand thinks.
As his heartbeat slows from the adrenaline rush, Nirand realizes he knows that expression.
- - - -
“I wish you would tell me what you’re working on,” says Nirand, in a last-ditch attempt. “I could help you, you know.”
Mohinder considers him, weighing options.
The kiss shocks Nirand, too fast, oh-so-wanted, Mohinder’s tongue slipping past his lips. Mohinder withdraws, the taste of desire, danger retreating from Nirand’s mouth.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” asks Mohinder, lowly. “Don’t lie to me.”
Nirand can’t respond.
- - - -
Later, Mohinder lies sweaty, sated beside him. Nirand is trapped, on the very edge of belief - he knows, now, knows the feel of Mohinder’s body, more than he ever expected to, hardly dared to hope.
“You wanted to know what I’m working on.” Mohinder reaches, to the bedside table.
“Yes,” says Nirand.
“Tell me,” and Mohinder rolls back over, facing him. “Have you ever heard of a man named Sylar?”
Something in Mohinder’s voice warns him; even so, Nirand doesn’t react fast enough.
He barely hears Mohinder discarding the needle, tossing the blankets aside, as he fades into unconsciousness.
- - - -
“This had better be good,” grouses Nathan.
“We meet alone,” states Mohinder, evenly.
Nathan nods to the Secret Service; they retreat, out into the hallway.
“What is it?” asks Nathan. “Are you going to tell me what the hell it is you’re working on?”
“I don’t have to tell you,” Mohinder says. “I can show you.”
~*~
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mohinder/Nirand
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Prompts: Lab coats, research and past Mohinder/Sylar
Summary: “Mohinder is a dangerous man,” says Nathan. “Dangerous men don’t get to go free.”
A/N: Yes, guys, this was mine; it was written for toestastegood. I know, Mohinder/Nirand, ew, right? You should check it out anyway. For even just this one reason: I didn't use the verb "to be" (is, was, were, am, are) anywhere in the fic, besides dialogue. Not a single instance. You can check me on that.
- - -
Nirand’s cheap leather briefcase sweats under his palm; his fingers slip, bare friction keeping the case from tumbling to the ground. He scans the road outside the airport, clogged with dirty taxicabs, square black suitcases, crying children, all hazed with a vague air of cigarette smoke.
The streets remain, as in his first glance, empty of his promised escort.
Nirand sighs, glancing to the dial of his watch, faintly glowing in the abstract twilight. Twenty minutes late.
“Mr. Nirand.”
Nirand turns, shrugging the fabric of his jacket, thin against the chill of New York autumn, closer around his shoulders. “It’s Doctor,” he corrects, curtly.
The federal agent pauses, the last of the day’s sunlight reflecting cleanly off the man’s glasses, transforming simple black plastic lenses into empty mirrors. “The President is waiting,” says the agent.
Nirand nods, impatient, and gestures for the agent to lead the way.
- - - -
“Goldfish?”
The yellow crackers smile contentedly from the blue porcelain bowl; the sight, somehow, sickens Nirand. “No,” he says, “thank you.”
Smile stretches lipstick-covered lips too wide over stained-white teeth; the effect is less attractive than gruesome. Nirand clutches the briefcase, thinking of his luggage driven away in the President’s reflective black car. Taken to his hotel? Whisked away for inspection? He suspects the latter.
Finally, the secretary returns to her work, manicured nails clicking on the keyboard.
The door to the Oval Office opens smoothly, soundlessly, unlike the door to Nirand’s office. He’ll take care of it, when he gets back, grease the hinges.
Nirand has schooled himself, firmly, to expect nothing; still, somehow, his first sight of Nathan Petrelli, leader of the free world, youngest United States President in history, still manages to take him by surprise.
Nathan nods, curtly, at the secretary. Turns to Nirand. “Are you Dr. Nirand?”
Nirand stands. Extends his hand, to clasp around Nathan’s own. Nathan’s handshake grips too strong, twisting the shake to his own advantage.
“What is this about?” Nirand asks, attempting courtesy.
Nathan gestures Nirand into the Oval Office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
“I heard that-”
“I don’t put much stock in rumors, Dr. Nirand,” interrupts Nathan Petrelli. “What you heard - is irrelevant. What you need to know is what I’m going to tell you, right now.”
“Is it about Mohinder Suresh?”
Nathan considers this, his mouth flat. “Yes,” he says, finally.
- - - -
Nirand doesn’t recall much of the lab, on the way in; he retains a lingering impression of off-white tile, too-cold air conditioning. The lab room itself blurs into impressions of white and grey, metal and fluorescent.
The lab assistant leaves him behind; Nirand watches as Mohinder Suresh leans over a microscope, perched precariously on the edge of a stool.
“Mohinder,” he ventures, cautiously.
Mohinder doesn’t move; he flips a Bic pencil in his fingers, makes a scribble on lined notebook paper.
“Mohinder,” again, louder.
“So that’s how it is.” Mohinder snaps his binder shut, the Bic falling next to it. Moves to the next microscope. “What did he promise you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“First he brings in the most brilliant scientists of the age,” and he moves away from the microscope, to the computer, “then it’s all about lab assistants. Women, men, they’re all beautiful, all so eager to help out, any way I need it.” Fingers, tapping at the keyboard, windows opening and closing too fast for Nirand to make any sense of it. “What did he promise you?”
“Nathan Petrelli?”
“Yes, Nathan Petrelli.” Mohinder shoves test tubes out of the way, yanks a white lab coat from underneath. Wraps it around his shoulders, not bothering to pull it all the way on.
Nirand can understand that - the sub-Arctic feel of the lab already grates on his nerves. “He didn’t promise me anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
The last time Nirand saw Mohinder Suresh, the passion in his eyes glowed so bright Nirand doubted Mohinder’s sanity; now, he thinks, he prefers that Mohinder, the excited, intense Mohinder, to this burnt-out hopeless version.
“There was a friend in need,” says Nirand, simply. “I came.”
“Oh, yes.” Mohinder turns. “Nathan Petrelli, master manipulator. How long, do you think, before he starts asking you questions?” Starts sliding binders into a stack.
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s he working on?” Another binder onto the stack. “Why is he hiding it?” Another. “Can you give me his notes?” And another - Mohinder slams them down on a clear patch of table. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out!” Mohinder snarls, tendons straining at the force of his grip on the table’s edge.
Nirand can’t find a trace of his old friend in the wild rage of Mohinder’s eyes.
- - - -
“How is he?” asks Nathan.
Nirand shifts his balance against the uncomfortable gravel, the perfect horticulture suddenly claustrophobic. “As you said,” murmurs Nirand. “Troubled.”
“You understand why it’s important, then,” says Nathan.
Nirand carefully considers his next question. “Aren’t there other ways to find out about his research?”
Nathan glances away, eyes tracing the edge of a perfectly square bush. “He doesn’t just encrypt his notes, he codes them. Half in one language, half in another. Slang that we can’t understand, organization only he can figure out.” Nathan shakes his head. “We need someone he can trust.”
Nirand nods. “I understand.”
- - - -
“May I come in?”
Mohinder prods one-handed at cold steak with a plastic fork, half-hearted.
A positive response if Nirand has ever seen one; he steps into the suite, sliding the door shut behind him. “You live here?” he asks.
Mohinder nods, dropping the fork.
“You never leave the White House?”
“No,” Mohinder confirms, lowly. “Never.”
“And you’re happy with this?”
“I’m sorry,” murmurs Mohinder.
“For what?”
“For the lab,” says Mohinder. His slim brown fingers twist in his hair; he sighs, in irritation or despair. Or both. “I was out of line.”
“Not at all,” Nirand protests.
“I think you should go back to India,” Mohinder tells him.
Nirand shakes his head. “Not until I know that you are all right.”
“It’s dangerous.”
Nirand laughs. “Dangerous?”
Mohinder’s eyes stay fixed on his cold half-eaten dinner. “No,” he says, finally.
“No, it’s not dangerous?”
“No,” says Mohinder, “I’m not happy.”
- - - -
“So, what is it you’re working on?”
Mohinder laughs, his face twisting into a smile. “You think I’d possibly trust you enough to tell you?”
That hurts - much more than Nirand expects. “I am your friend,” he jokes, to cover it up. “And I knew your father.”
“Don’t talk to me about my father.”
Interesting.
Mohinder turns back to him, palms flat on a rare empty stretch of the long metal table. “Any research you’re working on?”
Nirand pauses. “Ah, well, yes, of course…”
“Need anything?” Mohinder gestures at the lab. “Equipment, materials, assistants? I can get it for you.”
Nirand feels, briefly, like a fish stranded on the sand, its wave retreating too quickly into the ocean.
“I’m on an unlimited budget,” Mohinder tells him. “I can get it for you.”
“Really,” Nirand manages.
- - - -
“You have him on an unlimited budget.”
Nathan raises an eyebrow, behind unrevealing sunglasses. “I do.”
“And you don’t even know what he’s working on?” Nirand blinks. “Why don’t you just let him go?”
“He’s a dangerous man,” says Nathan. “Dangerous men don’t get to go free.”
- - - -
“Be careful of him,” cautions Mohinder.
“Who?” asks Nirand.
“Nathan.”
Nirand glances up, to Mohinder’s distracted expression, his eyes flicking from one page of notes to another.
“Why?” he asks, cautiously.
“He acts like you already agree with him,” says Mohinder. “He doesn’t let you say no. He makes you think his ideas are yours.” Mohinder brushes his hair out of his face, impatient, and Nirand finds that he can’t look away.
“He made you think that?”
“Nathan doesn’t have any power over me,” Mohinder dismisses. “That’s why he brought you here.”
- - - -
Mohinder shudders, absently, and Nirand sees his hand steal up to his mouth.
“Is everything all right?” asks Nirand, finally. “You’ve been staring at that computer all day.”
Mohinder looks up, surprise and chagrin darting over his features.
- - - -
After Mohinder slips out of the room, presumably to find a similarly metal-and-tile bathroom, Nirand checks the computer screen.
One program. He clicks, and finds a three-dimensional model of a brain, dotted with markers, labeled in a strange mix of Tamil and English. They don’t make any sense - Freeze, flood, 500, !!, 10/16. Incomprehensible symbols.
When Mohinder returns to the computer, his face falls into a delicate grimace. He knows, Nirand thinks.
As his heartbeat slows from the adrenaline rush, Nirand realizes he knows that expression.
- - - -
“I wish you would tell me what you’re working on,” says Nirand, in a last-ditch attempt. “I could help you, you know.”
Mohinder considers him, weighing options.
The kiss shocks Nirand, too fast, oh-so-wanted, Mohinder’s tongue slipping past his lips. Mohinder withdraws, the taste of desire, danger retreating from Nirand’s mouth.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” asks Mohinder, lowly. “Don’t lie to me.”
Nirand can’t respond.
- - - -
Later, Mohinder lies sweaty, sated beside him. Nirand is trapped, on the very edge of belief - he knows, now, knows the feel of Mohinder’s body, more than he ever expected to, hardly dared to hope.
“You wanted to know what I’m working on.” Mohinder reaches, to the bedside table.
“Yes,” says Nirand.
“Tell me,” and Mohinder rolls back over, facing him. “Have you ever heard of a man named Sylar?”
Something in Mohinder’s voice warns him; even so, Nirand doesn’t react fast enough.
He barely hears Mohinder discarding the needle, tossing the blankets aside, as he fades into unconsciousness.
- - - -
“This had better be good,” grouses Nathan.
“We meet alone,” states Mohinder, evenly.
Nathan nods to the Secret Service; they retreat, out into the hallway.
“What is it?” asks Nathan. “Are you going to tell me what the hell it is you’re working on?”
“I don’t have to tell you,” Mohinder says. “I can show you.”
~*~